The Field Where We Died
by J.Rhaye
Summary: Soul-mates aren’t supposed to be always torn apart, right? They should be able to find each other and walk the paths of light and darkness… together… Dana's Civil War Story -One-Shot


Disclaimer: X-Files and its characters are owned by Chris Carter and not by me. No harm is intended. This fic takes place well before the events of season 4 episode 5 (_The Field Where I Died_), but is Dana's past life's part of the Civil War story.

November 24, 1863

The Field Where We Died

In the cold misty morning, as I pull my rough woolen blanket more tightly around my shaking frame in an attempt to stave off the bitter chill for a moment longer, I allow my eyes to pass over the men around me lying in the dirt of this shallow trench, some sleeping fitfully, some coughing wetly, and some, like me, on constant watch, never for a moment allowing the tired and the fatigue to overcome them. My gaze pauses for a moment on a battle-worn yet handsome face, and the blue eyes rise to meet mine, as if knowing that I was surveying my troops. He nods and smiles at me, reassuring me that my thoughts were his as well; the chill recedes for a moment.

These are my men, all ten of them, battered, bloodied, and exhausted… all that is left of the original twenty five of us who were ordered to join General Bragg's troops, who were, at last account, fighting up near Hamilton county. Sergeant Mills died after the last skirmish we were in, so, being the only officer left, I took command of the remaining men. It was not my initial inclination. Not being a natural leader, I had hoped to pass them off on someone else, but Sully didn't let me allow my own misgivings to keep me from making the right decision. I kept them alive and relatively healthy so far, though perhaps they would be healthier and happier if I had left them back in Atlanta a week ago.

I glance at Sullivan again, slouched uncomfortably against a rock, and I fight the urge to offer him my spot, here in a moss-covered nook against an old magnolia tree. I have to remember that, although we are good friends, I am still his commanding officer. Instead, I merely watch him, shifting ever so slightly to find a more comfortable position before reaching into a pocket and pulling out a folded and well-handled book. I'm surprised that he's actually kept it, the book _Paracelsus_ that I lent to him. I had read it so often that the cover was well-creased and tattered, yet he treated it well; there was no further damage that I could see…

But rather than leafing through the pages, he immediately turns to something that is marked and begins to gently stroke the paper. Yet it is not words that he is ruminating upon, but the beautiful face on a photograph that is wedged between the pages. I've seen the photograph before. Sully showed it to me one day during a lull in fighting when we were down in Augusta. The woman is his fiancée, Sarah Kavanaugh. She appeared to be a strong woman, someone of substance and force, beautiful and intense, and I can see why he fell in love with her.

I look away, feeling as if I'm intruding on his solitary musings, but there's something else… something that seems very unsettled, but as I turn my head, a cough arises, unbidden and unwanted, that chases any other thoughts from my head.

I try to muffle my hacking with a dirty kerchief, but I know that I've gotten the attention of my whole squad. As I fight for a breath, the coughs continue, harsher and wetter than usual. I fight with myself to get this under control, hoping against hope that the breaths will come easier, trying to ignore the little bursts of fairy light dancing at the edges of my vision.

And then there's a hand on my back, gently soothing me, and whispered words cut through the haze of pain and frustration.

"Breathe slowly. Slowly now. Come on, Sarge. A small breath. Now another one…. Slower…. Longer… There, that's better. Can you sit up, Sir?" I struggle a bit to right myself, but helping hands steer me upright and prop me up against the knotted trunk of the tree.

"Here, take a drink."

I feel a hand attempt to pull mine away from my mouth, and I shake it off. Gently insistent, he pries it away and forces the canteen to my lips, and cold liquid blessedly pours down my throat, washing away the metallic taste of blood.

"Thanks," I croak, handing it back to Sully.

I glance up and he's already murmuring quietly to the rest of the boys, letting them know that I'm okay. I appreciate the gesture, and am shamed at my own weakness. _I_ should be the one to reassure my men, to give them hope when there is doubt, to ease their minds and their hearts…

Perhaps I should promote Sully from Corporal to Sergeant and step down. After all, they seem to listen to him more easily than they do to me. I suppose I'm too harsh with them, too insensitive, but I have no time to be soothing. Grudgingly, the men lie back down to try and snatch whatever little rest they can. It is almost sun-up, and before long, we must be back on the trail to Hamilton County, and the battle raging there, once again.

"How long?" Sully asks, surprising me from my thoughts. "How long you been this sick?"

I look up at him and am surprised to see such a stern expression. He points down at my kerchief, and even I am stunned at how much blood there actually is on it, a bit of bright red and color in such a dull and drab world. Folding it and placing it back in my pocket, I shrug him off.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it," I try, knowing he won't take that as an answer.

"But, sir, why didn't you see a medic when we were in Atlanta?" he whispers intently, and his proximity gives me that unsettled feeling once again. I shake my head and push him away.

"I _did_. I went to a hospital and the doctors didn't give me good news, so that's all there is to it. I just didn't think it would have advanced this quickly." I put my hand down on the trunk of the tree and work my way slowly up to stand, all the while fending off his helping hand. "I'm not so weak yet that I can't do my job. I'll get us where we're supposed to go."

"And then no further?"

I stare at him. He's actually more intellectual than I thought upon first glance. He was able to figure out that I don't believe I have much time left, but I can't allow him to know that he's right. I've discovered that he's not very controlled when it comes to his emotions, however, and I know that I can use this to keep him at bay.

"Hamilton is where Sarah is, right? Then that's all that matters," I say with a hint of a smile. That does it. His face lights up with joy at the thought of seeing her again. I had first noticed that when he would speak of his fiancée, his eyes would soften as he'd tell me about the curve of her neck and the tilt of her eyes as she smiles, his face would fall when he'd realize that he'd be away from her for so much longer. And he couldn't contain himself when he found out that we were on the way to the place where she lived.

My conflicted heart at ease for a moment, I pull out my pocket watch and take notice of the time.

"Gather the men, Sully. We're leaving in five minutes."

"Yes, sir," he says, and moves away to rouse the troops again.

After eating a sorry meal of moldy biscuits and weak coffee, we are slogging along a muddy road, eyes and ears ever on the alert. The fields we pass through are barren or burned, and the few houses that are still left standing hold nothing but mice and crows. The devastation that we encounter on a daily basis is heart-wrenching, knowing that these are our lands and that these families are our own. I try not to think too much on my own family and home, because I know that if I do, my heart would break again, and I would die inside all over again. But as I've taught my men, during the waking hours, there's no place for reminiscences, bitter or contented, only the battle ahead and the troops and city we will be helping to reclaim.

oOoOo

When the cloud-filled sky is at its lightest, I gaze at my watch again to take note of the time, but despite my own teachings, my mind wanders back to the past and the happy faces of my wife and daughter as I unwrap my Christmas gift and find a brass pocket watch...

Unexpectedly, I become mesmerized by the second hand ticking rhythmically forward, and I am suddenly very aware of the movement of time, with its enduring inevitability. The tiny piece of metal seems to slow down, and I wonder if there is a way to overcome the forces of nature, life, and even time itself. I ponder the certainty of my own demise, which is upon me perhaps sooner than I would have imagined, and I think upon the things in my life that I could have done differently: perhaps dance with my wife more, or play with my daughter when she had tea parties, or learn to use a gun _before_ those damned Federals torched my house and killed what precious little I had in this world and turned my heart to stone.

I wonder if there was a way that I could have changed my fate. Could I have done it through sheer will alone, or have our lives already been planned out for us before we were even born? I can't really believe that; our choices, our desires, our sorrows _can't_ be part of some ready-made plan. What good would our choices be then? What of our own free will? I fight in this senseless war, not because I want to, not for slavery or against, but because of what happened to my family, and for our right to be independent individuals, for our right to make our own choices in life and have those choices actually mean something to the people we love.

My eyes find my friend, trudging along beside me. He was the lone person who had finally broken through the icy wall that I had built up around myself and reminded me what it was like to care about someone, when I had given up on caring for anyone at all. With just his friendly nature and his open personality, he had slowly given me back my humanity. And has my life meant anything to him, or to anyone else, for that matter? I have failed at so much in my life that I wonder if I have touched anyone at all.

All I can do is hope that my small contributions in this short life of mine will make a difference, perhaps not in the wider scheme of this upside down world, but somewhere, somehow, to someone. My eyes lift to the gray skies and, for just a fleeting instant, my whole existence is laid out before me, and I know…

I don't have long now…

"Sarge?"

I return to myself, the moment of clarity gone and its revelations lost, and I realize that I had actually stopped in my tracks, here on this muddy horse trail in an unknown field in the heart of our own backyards. My men gaze at me with worry, and some even are on the alert, peering into the distant trees or along the ravaged fields, ever on the lookout for any Federal troops.

"Sarge, what is it?" An urgent whisper finds my ear, and I spin my hand in the air, silently ordering them to continue on. They comply without protest, the mark of a good squad, and I force my thoughts back to keeping them all safe.

A few yards closer to the tree line, Sullivan approaches me once more, lowering his voice so the others around us do not hear.

"What are you hiding, sir?" he asks, and this time, I know that he won't take 'no' for an answer.

"Sully," I whisper, trying to hold back a cough that is now tickling the back of my raw throat. "If anything happens to me…" He shakes his head, trying to stop me from saying what he knows is true, but I continue on. "…then you're in charge. The boys already respect you. They know that you're next in line, so it's just a matter of you turning in this letter of recommendation to the lieutenant in Chattanooga, _Sergeant_ Biddle."

I reach into my breast pocket and hand him a well-folded piece of paper. I had drawn up the recommendation back in Atlanta, but never turned it in, knowing he wouldn't want that, yet I've held on to it, knowing that I would need it one day.

"Sir, I can't…" He doesn't want to take it, but I force it into his hand.

"You'll have to, soldier. You don't want Pennington in charge of things, right?"

I smirk, and he finally laughs, shaking his head, I'm sure, at the thought of our resident bookworm doling out orders. Again, I am successful at deflecting his attention away from my quickly deteriorating condition. Since I've trained my body to take slow and shallow breaths to try to prevent those ever persistent coughing fits, I can feel the strength ebbing from my body as the day progresses with the non-stop marching we've been doing. Thankfully, by early afternoon, we finally make it to the safety of the rear camp.

It is nothing more than a collection of tents and soldiers, but I don't see the men and artillery that I was expecting. I notice a few soldiers who, like us, are not part of the regular Tennessee army, and my worry increases. I knew that Chattanooga was a strategic point for us to reclaim, but I didn't understand why there weren't more soldiers to reinforce our position. Why was the rear camp merely a camp? Why hadn't we established any kind of strong supply line?

After identifying ourselves, I order the men to wait, rest, and have a warm meal while I report to the commanding officer. I salute him and he stands to greet me. He's a large man, with a uniform that appears to hang on him a bit, and I notice the dark circles around his eyes. He seems just as tired as the men outside, and I realize that the war had taken a bite out of a once robust man, just as it has the rest of us.

"You'd better get on up there quick, Sergeant," he mutters, shoving my orders back across the table. "Looks like Hooker and Grant are pushing back against us. The last reports I have are that Hooker took Chattanooga Creek this morning. I'm not sure what you boys can do for them, but you'd better try your damnedest to get there today. Bragg needs as many men as possible to defend Missionary Ridge. We'll send Johnson along to help you find your way there."

"Understood, Sir. My men are eating now, so we'll leave within the quarter hour."

"Good… and Sergeant," he says, making me pause. I turn back. "Good luck out there." He's looking at me sadly, and I know at once that he believes that this whole thing is a fool's errand.

"Sir," I say, clearing my throat. I hope he'll tell me the truth, "I don't mean to be insubordinate, but why haven't we established a supply line to support General Bragg? Don't we need to regain our foothold in Chattanooga? We can't possibly be the only reinforcements."

He appears grave. "Not many men at your level would have the guts to question the General's actions."

"Not many men at my level are willingly walking to their demise," I counter.

He smirks. "Well, at any rate, I can't answer your question, because I've been wondering the same thing. We're spread too thin; there just aren't enough men to go around. You're proof of that, coming all this way from Atlanta. Son, to be honest with you, I can't foresee us forcing the Federals out of that city, but… we all have our orders to follow."

"Yes, Sir," I say, finally understanding that there's nothing we can do but to fight and try to beat the odds. Even still… "Actually, Captain, I have a request to make…"

He's surprised by my request, and though there's a strong need for troops, he grants my appeal. Though I am willing to step up to death's door, I will not drag anyone so important along with me…

oOoOo

"What's this?" Sully asks me after pulling me aside as we're getting ready to leave. He shoves some papers in my face. "It says that I've been reassigned to the unit here, on _your_ orders. What the hell is that?"

I draw myself up to my full height and glare down at him. "Just what it says, Corporal. You'll do more good here than where we're going."

"What's that supposed to mean? Of all the boys out there, you know that I'm the best shot you've got."

"Which is why they'll need you here." I return to my task of gathering my gear together.

"But you're going up to Missionary Ridge, right? To join General Bragg's army?"

"Yes." I check my gun, my rifle and my bullets, but the motions are hollow; all I can think about is the fact that he doesn't want me to leave him behind.

"Then you'll need me there..." he says, but I shake my head. I believe that's the end of it, but his expression changes, and he suddenly looks so lost. "I… I have to stay with you, right? You saved me, remember? I owe you everything… my life." Our eyes meet, and my chest constricts with pain. "And you owe me nothing…"

It's too much. I can't stand him nearly begging me, but I stand firm.

"You need to make sure you do what you can to stay alive, okay? After all, you need to see Sarah again, right?" I cough into my kerchief as I pick up my pack.

He watches me for a moment, but his eyes are focused on something just out of his reach, the hand of a beautiful woman as she beckons him home. I turn away, and a strange sensation burns in my gut: jealousy.

My eyes widen at the thought. Am I really jealous of his life? A strong, healthy body, a loving woman who is waiting for me, and the heart and passion to care so much about life. Of course. Who wouldn't be jealous of that?

"But what about you?" he asks, and my heart sinks. "Who's going to take care of you?"

I turn to him with a cold look. "No one needs to take care of me, Biddle."

The shock on his face is unbearable to see, so I finally turn my back on him and leave without saying goodbye. Johnson is waiting for me with my men at the edge of the camp, and without a look back, I round everyone up and continue on to the battle awaiting us at Chattanooga.

oOoOo

We double-time it up the road, and here we see more activity than we had through the back trails in the country. Because of the increased activity, my coughing increases, but it's constant and not the hacking fits that debilitate me. I can feel the sideways stares by my men, but I refuse to allow them to slow down just for me.

We pass a medical camp along the way, and the soldiers that I see there have a hollow sort of appearance, as if their souls have been drained from them and they have nothing left to give. Most of them are injured, with blood-soaked bandages covering heads and stumps of legs and arms, while other men tend to the wounded or minister last rites to the dying. The smell of blood and dying flesh mingles with the tang of the wet earth, and the stench seems to hang in the air around the camp, shrouding it with a deathly malaise. I stifle another cough, and hope to hurry my men away from its depressing atmosphere.

But then I notice that there are nurses here, too, and without meaning to, my eyes scan the faces, searching for the strong and beautiful features that I have seen only in a single picture, held so gently in the hand of a man who is so very close to home, but is safer far away.

My chest finally convulses, and I'm suddenly seized by a coughing spasm that surprises my men. Johnson tries to steady me as I lose my balance, and he lowers me gently to the ground. I hear him yelling for a medic, and though my eyes are screwed shut, I know that my men are regarding me with concern, not necessarily for my own safety, but because I haven't appointed a new Corporal to replace me if I'm incapacitated.

"What's wrong with him?" I hear a woman's voice dimly as my coughs continue, harsher and wetter than before. Strong, but gentle hands help me to sit up straight. Something cool is tipped into my mouth and my coughs begin to subside.

"He's got the consumption, ma'am," Rogers tells her. "Been sick for a while now."

"Why wasn't he relieved of duty?"

"He said he'd get us to Tennessee like our orders says, and that where we go, he goes, even if he has to die getting us there."

My coughs quiet down, and through the dim haze of pain, I recall the words that I spoke to Captain Dixon in Atlanta when he told me of his plans to send my men with Sergeant Mills to Tennessee to help the army there. Though I had initially volunteered to help in the recapture of such a strategic point, they were going to assign my men to another sergeant and keep me safe in Atlanta, just because I was sick? I wasn't about to let my soldiers go through hell without me.

"And you let someone this sick order you where to go?" she asks, appalled at the thought. I am ashamed again at my failure at being a leader…

"Now, you just hold on a minute, ma'am. Sarge may be sick and all, but he's still the best soldier I've ever seen. He's kept us alive when healthy Sergeant Mills walked us right into an ambush. I ain't ever seen a man keep his cool when all those bullets kept hitting our men. He saved our lives more than once, so's long as he keeps on leading, then I'll keep on following."

There are grunts of agreement all around me, and the stone of my heart suddenly cracks a little more. I had no idea that they even considered me a good leader. I had always thought that they only respected Sullivan…

I open my eyes, and before I can even focus on her face, I know.

There above me, looking just as beautiful and just as strong as her picture is Sarah Kavanaugh.

She offers me some more water, which I take gratefully, but once my breathing calms, I force myself to my feet again. No helping or soothing hands greet me from my troops, but now I know that it isn't because they dislike me. It's because they respect me as a leader, and respect my desire to die standing up and fighting on my own. I had never known…

"I'm fine now," I tell them, and I nod at Rogers. "Let's keep going. I want to get there in the next couple of hours."

"Yes, Sir," he says, and they begin to head away from the camp.

Before I leave, I turn back to the nurse and tell her, ever so quietly, "You'll find Sullivan in the rear camp, back the way we came. He's waiting for you."

The surprise in her eyes is quickly replaced by joy and hope. Before she can even ask a question, though, I turn and leave. There's a terrible twisting in my chest, and I just hope that I haven't done any serious damage to myself with all that coughing. We still have at least five more miles to go…

oOoOo

We can see the smoke rising from beyond the ridge well before we can hear any gunfire, and the anticipation in the men's eyes is clearly evident. They, too, understand the hand we've been dealt. I had told them what to expect when we were back at the camp, and to a man, they agreed to carry out our orders, even when there was a very good chance that we weren't going to come out of it alive.

I pause in my tracks when I finally hear the first faint cracks of gunfire in the distance. Before I can even order it, five guns are out and four rifles are off shoulders. I ready my own, and we advance quickly, knowing that our rifles could help to make the difference in this conflict.

The North's military advantages are numerous, but one thing that they have in ready supply is a good artillery. We don't have many of the armaments that they do, but there are certain groups that have been granted special use of specific weapons. My squad was one of the few that was awarded use of the new Spencer repeating rifles, an enormous upgrade from the old muskets that are in general use by our armies. Having proven our ability to utilize them without wasting precious bullets, we were secretly 

ordered out of Tennessee to strategic battles around the South, trying to do what we can to turn the tide and give our armies an edge.

However, someone caught wind of our existence, and when we left Atlanta with Sergeant Mills and his squad, we were ambushed several times, whittling both of our two groups down to ten men, five of whom were mine.

Six total rifles left.

Five of my original ten are left, and now that Sullivan is gone, I'm down to four. I knew that as my men were slowly picked off along the way that our effectiveness was also whittled down. What use can five rifles be against an army that has a plethora of them?

I know the answer, and so do my men, even the ones that I've adopted from Mills. We continue on towards the sounds of gun and cannon fire, the smell of smoke, and the dying and killing that we will be encountering.

oOoOo

The chaos we find is incredible. The army lost control of Chattanooga Creek, and in their retreat, ended up burning the bridges across it. The soldiers coming back from Lookout Mountain are trying to organize themselves, deciding where they should set up. Eyes regard us with curiosity, suspicion, and even irritation as we walk along the path, looking for the command tent. We report in, and surprisingly, we are told to await further orders and are shunted off to a far corner of a nearby field.

"Sarge, aren't we supposed to be up along the ridge?" Rogers asks. "What good will we do down here?"

I shake my head as I cough. "I don't know. I asked them where they needed us the most, and they stuck us out here."

"Then why…?"

I hold up my hand. "I know, Rogers. I don't think we should be here either, and it's a waste for us to be stuck in a field, but we follow orders. We _should_ be up there, but they might know more than we do. For now, we'll wait."

For now, that's enough for them, but I know that we'll have to do more soon, or our long journey and our losses along the way will end up meaning nothing. The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, but I tell the boys to use the time to rest and eat, because the next day will see much more action than we've seen in some time. I keep returning to check on our orders, yet it is always the same: wait for your orders from General Bragg.

At sundown, however, I finally demand an answer from the Colonel, and he shakes his head.

"Son, I've sent a message to the General that you boys are here, but what he sent back wasn't promising. He doesn't want you up on the ridge. He said that your depleted squad ain't enough to make 

a difference up there. He wants you to stay here and be our last line in case we need to retreat. We will need you to provide cover fire. You'll cover the route towards Apison with Major General Cleburne's division."

"That's… Isn't that…? Won't we be more effective…?" I sputter.

"I know, soldier. But like I said, he doesn't want you on that ridge. Get your men to the rear line tonight and follow orders."

He hands me a piece of paper, and I shut my mouth against the flurry of expletives that I want to yell at him. I turn around to return and report our orders to my men, who will be just as frustrated and angry as I am. As I walk back through the camp, past men hunched over their dinners or catching what little rest they can, I see that many of them are just as frustrated as I am. Losing your position and having to retreat is embarrassing and confidence-shaking, and I find myself stopping here and there, tapping stooped shoulders and giving them encouraging words. I don't try to hide my sickness, and I see their surprise upon noticing my reddened eyes and my all too-pale skin, but then they hear my words of hope and determination. I try to make them realize that with _their_ healthier bodies, they can do _more_.

When I finally return to my squad, I explain to them what we're to do, and as expected, they express their distaste. I allow them a moment of rebelliousness before I reign them back in.

"We go where we're ordered," I finally say, putting an end to the argument. "I've discussed it with the Colonel, but we still have to go."

Grudgingly, they let their frustrations go, though I fully understand how they are feeling. I let them rest a while longer before I order them back up and ready to leave. As we're gathering our packs, another squad approaches us in the growing darkness, and my men watch their advance warily. The man in the lead raises his hand in greeting, and I feel my heart sink.

"What are you doing here?" I ask angrily, and Sullivan's smiling face falters a bit.

"My new orders," he explains, holding a paper up in the dim light. "Since you made me a sergeant, I've got my own squad now. I asked them to send us here, too. They've just ordered me to accompany you to Cleburne's division. Hopefully this way, I can stay in Tennessee now that I'm here."

My mind is swimming. He can't be here. He's supposed to be somewhere safe where Sarah could find him!

"You fool," I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. He seems confused, and I turn away from him in annoyance. "Let's get going," I tell my men, and haltingly, they follow as I set off north along the base of the ridge.

They don't question me, and we continue through the ever-darkening evening. After several minutes, though, we can hear the marching of a half-dozen men coming up the trail behind us. Unintentionally, I slow down, and before long, they catch up with us. Sullivan's men fall in step beside us, and they begin to speak quietly with my own.

"Why did you come?" I finally ask him quietly, breaking the tense silence between me and the only best friend that I have ever had. "Don't you understand that we're probably not going to come back from this one?"

"Yes, I do."

I turn to him. I can just make out his features in the gloomy, cloud-shrouded glow of moonlight. "Then why?"

"There are things in this world that are worth fighting for," he says, looking up the trail. "You taught me that, you know. I lost faith in so much after all the death that we've seen. I didn't know what to believe in, but you showed me that I can fight for the people I love, and that's enough."

My chest hurts, and I know that I have to tell him.

"You should have stayed where you were." I cough harshly into my handkerchief and then continue, "I saw Sarah."

He stops dead in his tracks, and turns full on to face me. All of our men stop short behind us.

"What did you say?"

I take a halting breath before the words spill from my lips. "I saw Sarah at the medical camp that we passed on the way here. I told her that you were back at the rear camp. I told her to find you there, and instead, you follow me here like a fool."

Panic fills his eyes, and for a moment, I believe he will turn around and leave right away. But he surprises me with a quick right cross to my cheek. I stagger backwards, but keep my balance, and then I lunge forward and catch him with a right of my own. He stands firm and we glare at each other for several moments before I begin coughing. He relaxes and then comes to my aid, handing me his canteen.

"Like I said, Sir," he whispers, "there are things worth fighting for. Sarah and I are soul-mates, and I believe that soul-mates will always find each other."

I smile bitterly, knowing that he's giving up so much just to be here. But here he is, and my own soul is eased knowing that he's by my side for this coming battle. I return his canteen, and clasp him on the shoulder.

"You're still a fool, but I'm glad you're here," I tell him, and we continue on. Our men, who were watching the exchange with concern, fall in step behind us and return to their own conversations. In an attempt to further lighten the mood, I mutter, "But I suppose I'm the real fool for promoting you, right?"

He smirks. "It takes a fool to know a fool." He's quiet for a moment before asking, "How was she? Did she look well?"

"I didn't get to see her much since I was having another fit, but from what I did see, she's as beautiful as you say. She looked tired, but well."

His face grows wistful, and again, my heart aches at the sadness I know he is feeling. I tried to do what I could to reunite them, but it was all for naught. My failures seem to be piling up at my feet, and I suddenly wish for the inevitable so that this life of disappointment will finally come to a close. There is so much that could have been…

We finally reach our destination, and report to the field near Chickamauga. After checking in at the command tent, I give the men time to wash up and relax for a while before we bed down for the night. Unless our fortunes change, tomorrow will be nothing but fighting and running away.

oOoOo

November 25, 1863

The reports flood in all morning; we're holding the line, Hooker's advance is slowed by the burned bridges across the Chattanooga creek, Cleburne is holding off Sherman. For a while, it seems as if fate has smiled upon us, but our hope is short-lived. Before long, we get the reports that they're pressing against our center, directly challenging our rifle men… and advancing!

It's only a matter of time now when we'll be called into action, not to help the rifles up on the ridge to push back, but to help defend our retreat.

How that word burns in my gut.

This assignment is embarrassing, and even as people begin streaming by us, away from the ridge and towards Chickamauga, I keep my eyes on the ground so that the disgust on my face won't show to the others. This is the exact opposite of everything that I've worked towards in this war. There is no revenge, no retribution. We're neglecting the very thing we're trying to protect!

"It's time, Sir," Rogers says, tapping me on the shoulder, and we all stand and join the men who will be protecting the rear of the column. Within the hour, we are engaged in holding off the enemy.

The next several hours are a blur of activity and intense emotions, gunfire, smoke, and screams, and I do everything that I can to keep my troops alive, but it seems that no matter what I do, someone is falling beside me. All I can do is to try and locate the shooter and pull the trigger, hoping to do some damage to their troops as well. I can't waste the valuable rifle bullets on blind shots, so I'm using one of the old Springfields from the retreating army. It's antiquated in comparison to the Spencers that my squad has been using, but being a sharpshooter and covering a retreat are two completely different circumstances, and the availability of bullets necessitates the use of the muskets over the new rifles.

A bullet whizzes by my arm, and I look up and spot the advancing soldier. As quickly as I can, I pull out a cartridge and rip it open, pouring the black powder down the barrel. The bullet follows it, and I ram it in, pulling the rifle up. A new cap goes in, the hammer is cocked, and I aim and pull the trigger. As with many shots I've taken today, the bullet finds its mark, and I continue on, marching backward and watching the rear, or marching forward and keeping an eye on the column. After I don't know how many hours, I'm already exhausted, and my coughs are getting worse, but I cannot stop for help when so many are counting on us for protection.

Again, someone nearby falls, clutching his leg, and I haul him up, urging him along up the column. I yell for one of the carts to stop. But as I help to lift him into the back of a wagon, I can almost hear something burst in my chest, and I collapse to the ground, coughing up a mouthful of blood.

"Sarge!" Sully yells from somewhere to my left. "Help him! Get him in the cart!"

"No," I yell, shoving away the hands that are only trying to help. I wipe at my mouth and leave a thick streak of red along the sleeve of my uniform. "I'm fine. Keep going!"

A strong hand grips my arm and pulls me up, and Sully shoves me towards the wagon. "Get on!" he orders. "You're no help to us if we have to keep worrying about you."

I want to punch him out for that, but I know that he's right. My stamina is low, and I know that I'm not going to be able to walk much longer. It seems as if they're going to try to continue fleeing all night, and I'm certainly not able to keep up that pace anymore. After all, I'm sweating even now from the constant marching and fighting. I finally drag myself up onto the wagon, and lean heavily against the side, trying to keep from coughing again. I don't want to lose any more blood than I already have.

Damn this broken body of mine…

oOoOo

I open my eyes suddenly, not realizing that I had even fallen asleep. I'm propped up against an old tree, and my blanket is draped over me. Whoever placed me here knows full well that I can't lie down flat, and I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that Sully must be alive to make sure that I am somewhat comfortable in my sleep. But even now, I can tell that something is very wrong with me. Shakily, I remove my kerchief and wipe my face dry, hoping no one notices that I've developed a fever.

I look around, to try to see what is going on. There is a house nearby the campsite, and from here I can see that they've commandeered it and are using it as a makeshift hospital, carrying the wounded inside. There is also activity out in the field, and in the dim moonlight, I can see that they are digging. Why? Why stop here, of all places, just to dig graves for the dead? No, that can't be it. Perhaps the army is going to bury something else?

The door of the house opens and then closes, and the woman of the house, an older woman with gray-streaked brown hair with a resilient air about her, comes down the steps to make sure all the boys have been fed and that they have some hot coffee. When she stops before me, she offers me a bit of brandy 

to warm my body, and I accept it gratefully. Sipping it carefully, I notice that there's something strange about it.

"To keep the cold away," she explains. "This is the least I can do for you. It should help to warm you and ease your breathing. You'll need it."

I frown. How could she know that? Though I haven't yet coughed, I can feel my chest gurgling with each breath. This is bad.

"How do you come to have laudanum?" I wonder, knowing full well that it wasn't brandy at all. She hesitates for just a moment before answering.

"My husband was sick with the consumption, too," she says sadly. "This is what was left over. I know that's all I can do is to ease your pain a little bit."

"I appreciate it, Ma'am, but I'm not yet at the point when I will need something like that."

"That's what my husband said, too, just before he passed away." She regards me kindly, and I can't help but feel that she truly does know more about my state than I do. Against my will, I cough.

"Might I have your name, Ma'am?" I ask, needing to know for some reason.

She smiles, a ray of light and beauty in this cold and ugly world. "It's Martha," she says.

"Thank you kindly, Martha."

She smiles tiredly before returning to the house, stopping by to check on different soldiers along the way. She doesn't seem to mind that our army has taken over her property, but I see the steely glare that she shoots towards the distant hills and the Union army beyond. I've seen that look so many times in the past year, always in the faces of women, young and old, as they recalled their tales of invasion and destruction by the Federals; always a look of hatred and resentment and sad resignation.

The men settle down nearby, tired, but a little more comfortable than the night before. Sullivan melts out of the group digging in the field and approaches slowly. After ensuring the men were fine, he lowers himself to the ground beside me.

"Why didn't you wake me before?" I ask quietly, clearing my throat. I force myself more upright.

He smiled. "This is the first time you've been able to sleep so soundly, that I didn't want to bother you. We'll all be busy enough today and tomorrow."

He's silent for a moment, and in the darkness of the night, with my friend beside me, I actually feel at peace. One can almost imagine that we all weren't embroiled in what's become a losing battle for our lives. The tension is gone and the hate and destruction in the world seems to have vanished under the star-studded blanket of night.

"Sir?" he asks, and that one word pulls me back to reality.

"You know, you don't have to call me that anymore," I say with a sigh. "We're the same rank now, so you can call me…"

"No," he says, cutting me off. "I still consider you my commanding officer, no matter what our rank."

I'm touched by his words, and I allow him this one concession. "What is it, then?"

"We're actually away from most of the fighting, right? I think the majority of the Federals are chasing after General Bragg. So your decision to keep me safe is still being upheld. And this way, I can still stay in Tennessee to hopefully see Sarah again, and I can still stay with you when the time for fighting does come again."

His loyalty to me is unbelievable, and it heartens me when I feel as if there's no hope for my future. Because of him, I can push away any feelings of self-loathing and doubt, and turn my attention to keeping us all as safe as I can. I discuss with him my thoughts for the next few days. Though he's a sergeant now, too, he defers to my judgment, and while the rest of the army is digging, I decide to station our men at strategic points along the field to keep sentry after they have rested.

Sully and I stay up well into the night, not only conferring over strategies, but I find myself talking about other things. The laudanum loosens my lips, and I actually find myself telling him about my life, about marrying Louise at a young age and beginning a family, about taking over my father's bookstore, and about the horrible day when my world stopped turning.

"It was what made me finally pick up a gun. Me," I laugh, for what seems like the first time in years, "A bookworm worse than Pennington."

He smiles and shakes his head. "That's hard to picture."

"Well, it's the truth. I didn't want to be a soldier, but revenge was a very motivating factor."

"Revenge… You wanted to right that wrong all by yourself, huh?"

"Yes," I say sadly, coughing. "And I don't know if I can even do anything like that anymore. I've never found the men who killed my family, so, all I can do is to try and protect what and who I can."

Sully smiles, saying quietly, "Like you always do…"

"So, what are they doing over there?" I ask, hoping to stave off the wave of coughs that I know is coming.

"They're making a bunker to hide some of these weapons. We can't travel as quickly as we should if we're hauling all of this. And, if we can make it large enough, we might have to hide the people of the house, and probably a few of the wounded here."

"Oh…" I begin coughing. "Did you already talk about it with Martha…?"

The coughs are getting worse, and those damned fairy lights are back, circling the edges of my vision. Doubled over, I can feel the sweat begin to pour down my temples from my hacking.

"Sir? Sir!"

I cough one more time, and it feels as if something inside me has broken. The world suddenly tilts, and I hit the ground heavily. I can hear Sully's panicked voice yelling for help, but I'm mesmerized by the amount of blood on the dirt, slowly spreading out before me like the blooms of a flower.

The light at the edge of my vision is replaced by darkness, and it envelops me in its cold embrace…

oOoOo

"Is there nothing we can do?" I hear a voice break through the haze. A comforting voice…

"No. If he had stayed in a hospital in Atlanta, then perhaps he could have survived a little longer, but all these days and nights in the cold and the wet air, with no real rest? This is to be expected." A woman's voice, this time.

"Can he join the retreat?"

"No. He shouldn't be moved right now. It might just kill him."

"But… there's got to be something, Sarah…"

Sarah.

Then, she's found him after all. I struggle to open my eyes. I'm lying propped up on a cot in the living room of the house, before a low fire. Around me are a few other injured men.

"No…" I croak out. At my movements, Sullivan is immediately by my side, and behind him, I see that his fiancée is really here. "No, Sully. I knew from the beginning that I didn't have much time left. I was just trying to outrun death a little while longer. It looks like I'm out of time."

I try to laugh but end up coughing again, and my chest feels so heavy. It feels as if I'm dying already. This time, Sarah tips a glass of water to my lips, and then she lifts a small cup of a thick liquid. When I realize what it is, I turn my head away, determined not to drink it.

"Laudanum will help with the pain," she explains, but I shake my head.

"The pain tells me that I'm still alive, and I want to try to hang on as long as I can." I close my eyes, but I address my friend. "What's going on right now?"

Sullivan's voice is low as he reports, "They're finished with the bunker and have already hidden the weapons inside. They're starting to bring some of the wounded men down there, trying to make sure there's enough room. Major General Cleburne finally ordered everyone else to begin marching in an hour. He came through here a while ago, reminding us that our brothers had died up on Missionary Ridge, and that we've got much to fight for; we've been ordered to hold the line here and keep the Federals from following."

"What do they think we can do? They'll end up overrunning us eventually."

"I know." He looks worried, as if he's not quite sure what he should do next.

"What is the Colonel doing to shore up…?" But my question stops on my lips as I see his reaction.

"He and his men are gone. They already left us here…"

The world suddenly seems to go mute, and the deafening silence is pounding in my head. It's the thing that he left unsaid: "…to die."

Suddenly, my anger begins to bubble up and finally reaches the boiling point, all the frustration and the uncertainty that we've experienced since leaving Georgia, all the confusion and the disappointment that we've experienced upon arriving, and all the men whose lives have been lost, suddenly, all of that means nothing. The rage that I feel at all this injustice is the same fury I felt at the murders of my wife and daughter, and the need to act grips me, despite my damaged body, and I try to push myself upright.

"Sir, what are you doing? Stop!"

I have murder in my eyes, and I believe he'll back off, but instead his hands press down on my shoulders, and I collapse back down onto the cot without much resistance. It's too much. How can I hope to change anything? How can I hope to have made a difference in this war, in this world, when the men in charge deny us the opportunity to even _do_ anything with their incompetence?

"I've had it, Sully," I growl, completely frustrated by everyone's failures. "Forget our orders."

"What?"

"Tell the men that they're free to do what they want, but I don't want them to die for people who don't care a damned thing about them."

"Sir… You're fevered right now…"

"I know what I'm saying. I don't want you boys to die. If you want to stay here, and you're overrun, then I want you to surrender." He has an absolutely incredulous look on his face, but I continue on, my voice getting louder as I become even more and more agitated. "You'll be _alive_, Sully. That's what's important now. Who gives a damn about this war anymore? Who gives a damn about slavery? In the end, death doesn't care what color a person is! When you're in the ground, it doesn't matter!"

My ragged breathing fails me, and I begin gasping for breath between painful coughs. Again, the calming chant of, "Breathe slowly. Slowly now. A small breath. Now another one…. Slower…. Longer," meets my ears, and instinctively, I listen and follow his orders. Before I can protest, he's giving me the laudanum again, and I sink slowly into the oblivion of sleep.

oOoOo

November 26, 1863

I open my eyes, trying to remember where I was and what was going on, and all at once, it hits me with the sound of gunfire close by. I look around frantically, and see that I'm in the ground, in the bunker, surrounded by muskets and guns, with just five wounded men, two slaves, another nurse, Martha, and Sarah.

"What's happening?" I ask, and they both turn to me, fear and worry across their features.

"The Federals look like they're coming over the ridge in full force now…"

"Where are they? The men?"

Sarah answers this time, tears streaming down her cheeks. "They're out there. Each one. To a man, they're out there, ready to fight."

The shock of her words makes me ignore the pain shooting through me as I sit up straight.

"What? Why? I told Sully to surrender! They're all going to die!"

"He said that he's going to carry out what you've always taught him: to protect who and what you love."

I feel sick. He shouldn't be out there fighting without me. I force myself up and swing my feet over the cot before the women can protest.

"Help me get dressed," I order them sternly, and without a word, they help me into my uniform, still mud-caked and dirty. I check my rifle and my ammunition, and then before leaving, I turn back. "Thank you, both, for everything. And… I'm so sorry."

I climb up the steps of the ladder, gently pushing up on the trap door, and see that the field is quiet around me. I slither out and replace the door gently, trying to ensure that there is no trace of my passage. It is still dark, the sun still below the horizon. In the distance, I can see smoke, and my tired eyes search desperately for my friend. I need to get closer…

I stagger further into the field, and there, amidst the fighting, is a small group of men, huddled behind a fallen tree, trying to hold off an invasion. I can see hundreds of men spilling over the hills in a thick column, and a couple dozen are out ahead of the main group and are advancing quickly on our position. My eyes scan to the left and the right, and I see that they will be overrun before long. Five… no, eight men are coming around and will outflank them.

I raise my rifle, my valued Spencer, but I'm so weak now, that my arms are shaking. I drop to one knee and prop my arm on it to steady my aim. I can't afford to miss now. I take a shot, hoping that my precious bullet had hit the target. The smoke is already obscuring my vision, and with all the effort I can muster, I get up to reposition myself. A bark of pain and confused yelling tells me that I've hit the person I aimed at, and when I make it away from the cloud of smoke, I see that my troops are already firing off their own shots at the advancing soldiers. One of my men, however, is sprinting across the field towards me, and before I can catch my breath to yell at him to stop, he's at my side, yelling at me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He looks so angry, as if he didn't just expose himself to the enemy. Without a word, he pulls my arm around his shoulder and helps support my weight.

"Me? You didn't have to risk yourself to come to me!" I yell back. We're too far now from our troops for me to hobble over to join them, so he drags me to a nearby blackberry bush for some kind of cover. My gaze sweeps the field, checking to see if the Federals had seen where we had gone. My worry is alleviated when I see that they've retreated the way they came, and for a moment, the sounds of gunfire ceases. I turn my attention back to my friend. "I told you not to fight, Sully! I told you to…"

"That's bullshit!" he roars when he releases me, and I sink to the ground. Since I stepped outside, I've been coughing constantly, and I know that I'm of little use to them the way I am now. "You've got to fight to protect who you care about, right? Well, that includes _you_, too!"

I'm at a loss for words.

"Since I've met you, you've done nothing but fight, fight to get your revenge or fight to protect all of us. Always! Even now, you're fighting the future that you know is coming. So, why can't you let us fight when you can't?"

He's right. My chest has never hurt as much as it does now. I know that all I can do is accept his words.

"Fine," I say, clutching at my chest. "You don't have much time. You need to find a way to spread the men out. When you're that closely bunched up, the smoke from the rifles will block out your vision even worse. Not even this wind will clear it out quickly enough. How much ammunition do you have left?"

He frowns. "Not much. We'll have to use only our revolvers soon."

I reach down and hand him my pack. "Then use what I've got left. Take my rifle, too–"

I feel the impact of the bullet into my chest before I hear the actual shot.

As I fall backwards, I see that the shock and fear on Sullivan's face is quickly replaced by anger, and he wheels about to point his rifle at the tree line. He holds for a moment and then fires off a shot, bellowing with rage. He lowers his rifle and turns back to me, placing his hands helplessly over the wound, trying to keep the blood from flowing out of me. I hear more yells and more gunfire, but all I can see is _his_ face, filling my vision, and my heart breaks at the sight of the sorrow there.

I reach up with the last bit of strength that I can muster and grasp his arm, clutching him tightly. It feels as if my chest is burning, and I can feel my breaths leaking out, along with my blood, my life, from the hole in my chest.

"Sully," I moan and my voice sounds strange as it gurgles in my throat. I cough, and I can feel blood fill my mouth and run down my cheek. There's so much that I want to tell him, so much that I need to say, but though my mouth works, no sound is coming out now.

My body convulses, and my vision begins to dim.

The sorrow on his face is suddenly replaced by fear. I've never seen him like this even when he thought that he may never see Sarah again. He looks as though he's terrified of the truth that's right in front of him, that I'm dying. I want to tell him anything that will ease his worries, but I know that I can't even tell him a thing. Why can't I let him know that his friendship and companionship had meant more to me than any other; that my hope for his happiness was greater than my own; that I'm sorry I can't continue our journey together?

That ever unsettled feeling once again rises up within me.

What is this…?

What is this feeling…?

"_Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise_

_From outward things, whate'er you may believe:_

_There is an inmost centre in us all,_

_Where truth abides in fullness; and around,_

_Wall within wall, the gross flesh hems it in,_

_Perfect and true perception – which is truth…"_

All at once, I understand, and the tears spill from my eyes.

I can hear his voice above me, calling my name with a desperation that destroys any barrier that I might have tried to erect against this emotion. As much as I try to deny it, I know that it is real, and here at the end, instead of feeling shame or disgust, instead of trying to renounce it, I know that I can embrace it without fear of rejection or ostracism. This thought alone sets my soul at ease, and the undeniable truth of it settles like a balm against the disappointments of my life.

How long had it been?

How long had I felt this way?

How long had I _loved_ him?

My hand releases him of its own accord, though I want to hold him just a little longer, and his cry of despair turns into one of fury, and I recognize the expression now on his face. I remember the rage and anguish of losing someone so important, and I remember the journey of revenge that I found myself on. I don't want him to follow that same path. I don't want him to do what I know he will do.

But my body won't respond to my pleas, and though my mind screamed at him to stop, to leave it alone and just _live_ - live for himself, live for Sarah, live for _anything_, just don't die! - I can't do anything as he takes my pack and my rifle, turns around, and begins to fire shots into the distance.

"No," I want to say, but again there's nothing. It's coming. The end for us all is coming, and I'm helpless to do anything against it.

Gunfire and screams fill the air, and then it finally happens.

Sullivan Biddle is suddenly flying backwards and lands heavily on the ground beside me, and my newfound heart is ripped right out of me at the sight. He struggles a bit, and then turns his bloody head to take a last look in my direction. My failing eyes drink him in, struggling to focus on this face that I have come to know so well and yearn to see one last time. I can see his brilliant blue eyes, yet I know he is not looking at me. He is staring past me towards direction of the bunker, and his love within.

The darkness encroaches even more on my vision, and I'm just tired of fighting it off, just as I'm tired of this brutal life…

Perhaps, if given another chance, I would be able to love him freely.

Perhaps… I could even have the courage to fall _in_ love with him…

Perhaps… perhaps he'll see that his soul mate has always been beside him….

Even here at the end…

oOoOo

"…_at times, I well nigh dream_

_I too have spent a life the selfsame way –_

_Tread once again an old life's course. Perchance_

_I perish'd in an arrogant self-reliance_

_An age ago; and in that act, a prayer_

_For one more chance went up so earnest – so_

_Imbued with better light let in by Death –_

_So free from all past sin – that it was heard…_

_That life was blotted out – not so completely_

_But scatter'd wrecks enough remain to wake_

_Dim memories; as now, when once more seems_

_The goal in sight again…"_

**_Fin_**

oOoOo

A/N: Both of the italicized quotations are from _Paracelsus_, by Robert Browning. The last section is the section that Mulder spoke in the narrative at the beginning and ending of the episode, but it is quoted from one of the original versions.

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